her. Or perhaps the moment he secured the chance to win her.
“It’d be a terrible fate for us to marry if we didn’t suit,” he answered cautiously. It was a fate he’d already suffered.
“I’m pleasantly surprised that you agree,” Olivia replied. “I cannot think of anything worse.”
“But an even worse fate would be to miss our opportunity . . .” he went on. And then, lowering his voice because he was the sort of man who didn’t just say such things, he added, “ . . . for love.”
“Love?” Her eyes flashed, surprised to hear him say that.
“Would you rather I mentioned my ten thousand a year and your dowry?” Phinn asked dryly. He didn’t do much wooing of women, but he knew to err on the side of romance and less on the side of economic and practical considerations. “Would that persuade you?”
“It would persuade my father,” she remarked tartly.
To which he replied, “I wouldn’t be married to your father, now would I?”
“You’d be married to me,” she declared. “Prissy Missy. London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal.”
“You say that as if those things are deterrents. But I like those things about you.”
“And if I caused a scandal?”
She lifted her brow. This was a challenge. Phinn held her gaze.
“I think you underestimate my talents for dealing with wild and unruly women,” he said, essentially daring her to acts of outrageous behavior. He had survived Nadia. Never in a million years would Olivia be able to upstage her. But she didn’t know that. What was the worst she would do, anyway?
Opposite him, Olivia sat in a perfectly pressed and modest day dress. Her back was ramrod straight, her posture perfect. She daintily sipped her tea. He couldn’t imagine her causing trouble.
“I think I might surprise you,” she said. “Perhaps even scare you off.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could consider the pros and cons and consequences: “Would you care to wager about that?”
Chapter 7
A young beauty, were she as fair as Hebe, and elegant as the Goddess of Love herself, would soon lose these charms by a course of inordinate eating, drinking, and late hours.
— T HE M IRROR OF G RACES
British Museum
T hree particular young ladies sought a diversion in the antiquities room of the British Museum. They lingered before the pottery, particularly the ones painted with the most intriguing scenes of naked men and women dashing about. They chatted in hush whispers, as befit both the setting and the topic of conversation.
“I am more convinced than ever that the Mad Baron did indeed murder his wife,” Olivia confided in Prudence and Emma. She’d gone over their conversation in her mind repeatedly. He did not declare his innocence—not in any way that made her feel safe enough to close her eyes in his presence, let alone marry the man.
“He was awfully determined to whisk you off alone to a secluded place at the ball the other night,” Prudence said. “Presumably for nefarious purposes.”
“That isn’t even the half of it,” Olivia added dramatically. “We had a conversation about the murder allegations.”
“You did not,” Prudence said, eyes wide.
“Honesty. Always the best course of action,” Emma replied.
“Says the woman who faked her betrothal,” Prudence remarked.
“I married him, so it doesn’t signify anyway,” Emma said with a shrug. “And anyway, it was your idea to fake the betrothal.”
“Olivia was the one who wrote the letter,” Prudence replied.
“Hello!” Olivia said, waving her hands in front of her bickering friends. “He said the death was his fault,” she whispered frantically. Both Prudence and Emma obliged her with appalled gasps and exclamations, which attracted more than a few curious stares from other museumgoers. “And he said that because of my docile and obliging temperament, he was sure we would suit because, presumably, I wouldn’t drive him into a murderous rage.”
“He has no
“It’d be a terrible fate for us to marry if we didn’t suit,” he answered cautiously. It was a fate he’d already suffered.
“I’m pleasantly surprised that you agree,” Olivia replied. “I cannot think of anything worse.”
“But an even worse fate would be to miss our opportunity . . .” he went on. And then, lowering his voice because he was the sort of man who didn’t just say such things, he added, “ . . . for love.”
“Love?” Her eyes flashed, surprised to hear him say that.
“Would you rather I mentioned my ten thousand a year and your dowry?” Phinn asked dryly. He didn’t do much wooing of women, but he knew to err on the side of romance and less on the side of economic and practical considerations. “Would that persuade you?”
“It would persuade my father,” she remarked tartly.
To which he replied, “I wouldn’t be married to your father, now would I?”
“You’d be married to me,” she declared. “Prissy Missy. London’s Least Likely to Cause a Scandal.”
“You say that as if those things are deterrents. But I like those things about you.”
“And if I caused a scandal?”
She lifted her brow. This was a challenge. Phinn held her gaze.
“I think you underestimate my talents for dealing with wild and unruly women,” he said, essentially daring her to acts of outrageous behavior. He had survived Nadia. Never in a million years would Olivia be able to upstage her. But she didn’t know that. What was the worst she would do, anyway?
Opposite him, Olivia sat in a perfectly pressed and modest day dress. Her back was ramrod straight, her posture perfect. She daintily sipped her tea. He couldn’t imagine her causing trouble.
“I think I might surprise you,” she said. “Perhaps even scare you off.”
The words were out of his mouth before he could consider the pros and cons and consequences: “Would you care to wager about that?”
Chapter 7
A young beauty, were she as fair as Hebe, and elegant as the Goddess of Love herself, would soon lose these charms by a course of inordinate eating, drinking, and late hours.
— T HE M IRROR OF G RACES
British Museum
T hree particular young ladies sought a diversion in the antiquities room of the British Museum. They lingered before the pottery, particularly the ones painted with the most intriguing scenes of naked men and women dashing about. They chatted in hush whispers, as befit both the setting and the topic of conversation.
“I am more convinced than ever that the Mad Baron did indeed murder his wife,” Olivia confided in Prudence and Emma. She’d gone over their conversation in her mind repeatedly. He did not declare his innocence—not in any way that made her feel safe enough to close her eyes in his presence, let alone marry the man.
“He was awfully determined to whisk you off alone to a secluded place at the ball the other night,” Prudence said. “Presumably for nefarious purposes.”
“That isn’t even the half of it,” Olivia added dramatically. “We had a conversation about the murder allegations.”
“You did not,” Prudence said, eyes wide.
“Honesty. Always the best course of action,” Emma replied.
“Says the woman who faked her betrothal,” Prudence remarked.
“I married him, so it doesn’t signify anyway,” Emma said with a shrug. “And anyway, it was your idea to fake the betrothal.”
“Olivia was the one who wrote the letter,” Prudence replied.
“Hello!” Olivia said, waving her hands in front of her bickering friends. “He said the death was his fault,” she whispered frantically. Both Prudence and Emma obliged her with appalled gasps and exclamations, which attracted more than a few curious stares from other museumgoers. “And he said that because of my docile and obliging temperament, he was sure we would suit because, presumably, I wouldn’t drive him into a murderous rage.”
“He has no
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